So Far So Fast
by Nagia
Summary: When Bruce Wayne and his sons Tim and Dick (Robin) move to Jump City, neither of them are happy about it. But when Dick joins a group of bikers, Tim gets suspicious. One of those suspicions involves vampires and poor Tim doesn't know just how right he is.
1. Chapter One

**So Far So Fast**

**Chapter One**

**1**

_Friday, May 25th _--- _Jump City, 9:27 PM_

Tim Wayne stared at the truck full of their belongings. A five-day road trip across America hadn't been the fun it had sounded. Actually, it hadn't even really sounded that fun, but he'd managed to fool himself into being optimistic about it.

Five days in the un-air conditioned cab of an 18-wheeler spending at least ten hours each day on the road but never really getting anywhere defied all optimism. Oh, sure, after the first day, he'd still had a little hope, but when they did twelve hours the second day and hadn't left Ohio, he'd realized that this trip was going to _suck_.

On the third day, as his father proved that he had no conversational skills whatever (because,_ really_, what fifteen year old knows or cares about the crime rates in Saint Louis?) and Tim had read every Dean Koontz book in existence, as well as listened to as many Anne Rivers Siddons novels on audio-book as he could stand, Tim had lost all hope. Forever. About anything.

Watching his older brother go free, riding alongside them on a motorcycle, only rubbed his nose in the fact that _he_ was the one stuck in the truck with their crime-obsessed father.

"Tim!" Dick shouted. "Hey, Tim! Aren't you supposed to be _helping_?"

Helping. Right.

Tim strode forward and helped Dick to lift the couch. Struggling and swearing, they somehow managed to get down the ramp without killing themselves, and then hauled it up the stairs and into the living room. They threw it in the general direction of down.

"Damn, that thing was heavy," Dick swore. "Why did we cart that thing across America, anyway?"

Tim shrugged. He headed back to the truck.

The truck still had furniture in it. He called to Dick, and they began to move it out. Most of the pieces went in the proper rooms (or near them— but then again, when you're carting around a heavy wooden object, your acceptable proximity to the destination is dependent on how tired you're getting).

He looked at his watch, and wished he hadn't. The sun would start setting soon, and that would suck because their father would want to get all the boxes in before going to bed.

"There's no way we're gonna get this all done tonight," Tim sighed.

Dick only laughed. "That's why we got here on a Friday. We can have the whole weekend to do it."

They looked out at the truck. They looked at each other.

This was going to take the whole damn weekend.

* * *

_Sunday, May 27 --- Jump City, 11:52 PM_

Tim dropped his second-to-last box on the floor in his room. Across the hallway, he heard a corresponding thud as his father set a box down.

This was such a load of crap. In two days, he hadn't met a single person. Not one person had come over to say "hi," or "welcome to Jump City." And Dad was a police officer! He'd transferred over to the JCPD. That was why they'd moved all the way across the country— so he could join the JCPD and make himself feel better by improving their murder solution rate. Cops had their own little community, and nobody from _that_ community had come to visit, either!

This had to be about the unfriendliest little town in America.

Tim slapped his hands together, a habit he'd picked up from his mother, and headed back downstairs. He found his last box and hauled it up to his room.

With that done, he began to unpack. Somehow, they'd managed to get the bed frames and mattresses in before they started fiddling around with the boxes. So now all he had to do was take everything out and find a place for it.

His new room was smaller than his old one, and about a third of his stuff wound up going into a box again.

He could hear his father swearing from his room. Whatever the mistake was, Bruce Wayne obviously thought it was an incredibly stupid one.

"Damnit, I left my standard issue in the glove compartment of the truck and Dick's got my only backup in his motorcycle."

_That's odd. Dad hates his gun. . . Why would he care _where_ he left it?_

Outside, something connected with something with an incredibly loud CRACK, and then he heard that unique sound of shattering glass.

Both he and his father rushed into the hall and to the window at the same time.

A group of teenagers had surrounded the 18-wheeler. One of the held a baseball bat across his shoulders, while the smallest one had apparently clambered in through the broken windshield and was now rummaging around inside the cab.

The problem was that the smallest one was about a foot shorter than the cab of the truck because the cab's owner had put some monstrous-ass tires on it, and the hood had a curve, making the windshield would have been a bitch to reach.

The kid was agile. More agile than Dick— and Dick, their parents had adopted from a Romany circus. He'd been one of the circus' flyers.

A world class, professional gymnast. By the age of two. And they'd adopted him at the age of six, shortly before Tim's fourth birthday.

"Sons of bitches," Bruce snarled. And then his face turned stock white.

The little twerp had opened the glove compartment and found the gun. He held it up for his friends to see. And then he clambered out of the truck. The group headed toward the house.

"Tim, go get up in the attic. Let me handle this."

"With what? A chair? Dick probably brought your backup in with him."

That was when they heard the pounding of Dick's heading down the stairs from his loft.

"Fath, what's going on?"

Fath. The closest Dick ever came to calling Bruce 'dad'. In all the years Tim had known him, Dick had never come any closer. Not 'father', not 'pops', not 'old man.' It had always been 'Bruce,' or 'Fath.'

"Do you have my backup?" Bruce asked.

Dick pulled the Glock from his back jeans pocket and slid back the safety.

"I'll handle this. You two stay out of it. Go up to the attic."

Below them, the group of teenagers had finally managed to get into the house. They had to be tossing things around and kicking over boxes or something, to make the kind of noise they were making.

But Dick didn't hand Bruce the gun. Instead, he just stared at their father and crossed to the stairwell.

_Oh god. Oh god._ Tim's heart leapt into his throat. "Dick—"

"—Dick, what are you doing? What do you think you're doing?"

"Taking care of this," Dick replied.

Despite the years he'd known Dick, he'd always been a bit alien. He just didn't react to things the same way anybody else he knew would. It was almost as if he wasn't capable of feeling fear.

And then Dick vanished down the stairs.

**2**

_Monday, May 28 --- Jump City, 12:41 AM_

On the living room floor laid two dead men. The police hadn't removed the ski masks. The ski masks would stay on until the autopsies. So far as Tim knew, that wasn't normal police procedure, but it looks like the JCPD did things differently around here.

Tim could sort of see their reasoning— if a culprit had died, then what did his identity immediately matter? Why care until you absolutely had to do so? It wasn't as if you could prosecute him, or send him to jail. He wasn't going anywhere but to an autopsy room and then six feet under in a cheap coffin. His name would go into a case log as a mere side note, and maybe a mention in a newspaper article nobody read.

Both of the men had died in odd ways: Dick had somehow managed to flip onto the bookcase and shoot one through the back of the head, and had then shot another from a low angle, the bullet going upwards. He hadn't died of a wound to the brain. The bullet had somehow grazed through a major artery, and had gone up _through_ the man's Adam's apple. Another bullet had gone through the hollow in the same man's collarbone.

"So, Richard went downstairs, and you didn't know what he was doing until you heard the gunshots, right? You both stayed upstairs?" The police officer's nametag read Slade Wilson. "Why did you stay upstairs?"

"What would have been the point in going downstairs?" Bruce replied. "We wouldn't have been armed. If Dick was going to handle it, then it was better to let him handle it. I know my son. I knew he was competent enough to handle the situation. I didn't think he'd have to actually kill anybody."

Officer Wilson sighed. "Well, this appears to be a cut-and-dried case. What happened to the other three?"

Bruce shook his head. "As soon as I heard the gunshots, I ran downstairs, but the other three were already leaving through the window. I had to wrestle Dick to the floor to keep him from giving pursuit. I didn't get the chance to go after them."

"Well, it's a good thing you didn't. This group is probably the same one that's been plaguing this part of Jump City. They're extremely dangerous. Even a veteran officer couldn't hope to take any of them in unarmed. I'm surprised the one with the gun didn't manage to shoot Richard."

"I'm not. I told you, Dick is a competent young man."

Competent. There was a word to describe Dick. At the moment, though, Dick looked anything but competent. He looked almost. . . Afraid. Sick.

Lost.

There was no way Dick was going to have a good reaction to this. No way.

* * *

_Monday, May 28 --- 9:34 PM_

In the lowest level of Our Lady of Sorrows, the largest local hospital, lay the JCPD's only forensic autopsy center. For such a large city, the police department had a ridiculously small level of funding.

Two corpses lay abandoned on their gurneys, the plastic sheeting pulled over them to keep from disturbing whatever poor intern might mistakenly find his way into the forensic autopsy area.

The plastic covering the smaller of the two rippled. Any observer would have assumed that the motions came from the wind the air conditioning blew in.

But under the opaque plastic sheeting, the corpse twitched and jerked as bones broken in the transportation or inspection reset themselves and incisions knitted back together.

After a few moments, the plastic covering over the larger corpse also began to move. The wounds to the collar and throat of the corpse healed, as well as all the incisions the forensic surgeon had made to inspect the corpse.

The gurney rolled a little as the massive man sat up under the plastic, slid his legs over the side, and stood up.

He paused at the door, waiting for his green-skinned companion to join him as they fled the hospital.

* * *

From too much love of living,  
From hope and fear set free,  
We thank with brief thanksgiving  
Whatever gods may be  
That no life lives for ever;  
That dead men rise up never;

—from _Man_, ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE


	2. Chapter Two

**So Far So Fast**

**Chapter Two**

**1**

_Friday, June 1st _--- _9:24 PM_

"Hello, residents of Jump City! I'm Dan Labrador, your duly elected mayor, and I want to welcome you to SEAlabration!"

Dick Grayson watched as the teenaged residents of the self-proclaimed 'murder capital of the world' gave a raucous, roaring cheer as a group strolled onto the stage.

"And tonight, gift wrapped and bow tied, I give Jump City's own hit band, A Stone Unturned!"

Teenaged girls screamed. Teenaged boys shouted. Thirty-year-old men jumped up and down.

Something was seriously _wrong_ with this city, Dick decided. So he left the screaming crowd behind and decided to troll along the docks, as well as the tiny seaside shops, for girls.

It wasn't until he had passed the third shop down that he found a truly gorgeous girl. If there was one thing anybody could say about Gotham that had been good, it was that Gotham contained a respectable number of pretty girls.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw dark violet hair that went to her shoulder blades, long hair. Pale skin. He turned around, followed the girl.

It wasn't hard to do. She wore a black halter-top and black shorts. Under one arm, she carried a motorcycle helmet like one he'd never seen. In her other hand, she held a black case. A young woman dressed like that, walking down a street where the other girls dyed their hair pink or blue and dressed in bright, summery colors, just popped out at your eyes.

She walked almost soundlessly, despite wearing black heeled boots.

He didn't notice just where she was going (towards the parking areas) until he saw the barricades some thirty yards away.

_Great. I find a good-looking girl and she's a hooker. This is just my luck._

Except she didn't talk to any of the people who rolled down their car windows for her. Odd.

Lavender Hair continued on, into a parking lot Dick vaguely recognized as the one he used. She didn't stop at any car, but just kept right on going until she came across a motorcycle.

His motorcycle.

She opened the black case and removed some tools.

For the first few seconds, as she made preparations to hotwire _his_ motorcycle, none of it felt real. He pinched himself. Not only did it hurt, but it also left a mark.

This was real. Some girl was really going to hotwire his bike!

"Hey!" He cried. "What do you think you're doing? That's _my_ bike!"

The girl looked up. He saw wide, terrified violet eyes and pale skin.

"That's my bike. Get away from it right now or I'll call the police!" He took out his cell phone, pressed three numbers.

4-1-1

He would do no such thing as call the police, of course. She hadn't even gotten to the wires, yet. The cops would blow him off.

Evidently, she knew it, too. Lavender Hair straightened and looked directly at him. The terror drained from her face. A pale purple eyebrow lifted, making the girl's thoughts quite clear.

But then her gaze jerked to her left. She looked terrified again.

Dick chanced a look to his right. Someone grabbed him from behind.

"Sir, please put down your cellular phone," said the voice of a young woman. The grip around his chest tightened for an instant. "I do not wish to harm you, but I will if I must."

He dropped his cell phone.

"Thank you. I assure you, we will not harm you."

The woman behind him let him go. He whirled, glimpsing her. But she was already turning her back, so he really only caught the impression of a mixture colors: red, light orange, green, purple.

He heard a footstep, turned again, but only in time to see Lavender Hair running away.

"Wait!" He cried. "Come back!"

But she fled into the night, and vanished.

Rainbow Girl, he discovered when he turned around, had vanished too.

On the ground, his cell phone lit up and played the Gotham Knights fight song.

It began to rain.

_Crap._

* * *

_Friday, June First --- 11:52 PM_

Dick resisted the urge to grumble about his curfew— he was seventeen years old, he could drive, he could take care of himself— and yet his curfew was exactly the same as it had been when he'd turned sixteen.

Bruce had set the official, "you're grounded if you aren't home by this time" curfew at midnight. But experience had taught Dick to show up at least five minutes early. That way, Bruce couldn't claim that he hadn't been on time.

Bruce sat in that big purple chair of his, reading _Blue Blood._

"Did you have fun?" He asked as he turned a page.

"Yeah. How about you? Have fun staying home and reading?"

"Of course."

And that ended the conversation. Dick trudged up the first set of stairs, located in the kitchen, and then trudged up the second set.

Ah, the loft. _His_ loft. He hadn't had an entire floor all to himself back in Gotham, and he had to admit that it suited him. In one corner, he had a miniature kitchen. In another corner, a little shrine for his parents— a poster advertising their act, his mother's locket, one of his father's spare costumes. A single black candle that he never blew out.

It wouldn't do to forget his parents, to forget his father, to forget his heritage, his people.

He opened his window for a moment, letting in a rush of warmer air and the scent of eucalyptus. He stuck his head out the window, just looking around. And if he looked at the other rooftops, looked at the ground, at the trellis that reached the window and calculated distances, times, impacts, what of it?

A prickly feeling nagged at him, racing down the back of his neck, all along his spine.

Something just didn't _feel_ right.

He surveyed the darkened neighborhood. He hadn't had time to learn which cars went where, but everything _looked_ okay.

Wait. Moving shadow. There, on the sidewalk, just to the left of his house.

In Gotham, moving shadows were normal. The wind blew the trees, whose limbs shook, and the shadows of the limbs moved.

Jump City didn't have trees. Jump City was a desert right next to the sea. Nothing grew on the trellis that went up the outer wall of his house. He doubted anything had ever grown there, and felt certain that nothing would.

So there was no excuse for a shadow to be moving at midnight, unless. . .

He caught a glimpse of violet hair. That decided him. His gaze shifted to the trellis, within easy reach.

Distance, time and impact.

**2**

_Saturday, June 2nd --- 11:14 AM_

Tim did not term himself an early riser. In fact, he didn't term himself a riser at all, especially in the summer, and even less so during the summer weekends.

For Tim, waking was a necessary evil, heavy on the evil and light on the necessary.

Usually, the sound of his father turning off his floor fan and yanking the curtains open, accompanied by the sudden absence of white noise and presence bright light, was what woke him.

This time, bright light that made it through his heavy curtains did the trick.

Oh, wait. It might have also been, "**WHAT IN THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING? YOU COULD HAVE DIED! YOU COULD HAVE GONE SPLAT ON THE GODDAMN SIDEWALK YOU CRAZY SON OF A BITCH!**"

Somebody answered quietly, too quietly for Tim to hear.

"**NO, THE FACT THAT YOU WERE A FLYING GRAYSON DOESN'T MAKE ME FEEL ANY BETTER! I DON'T CARE IF YOU WERE AN ACROBAT, HEARING WHAT YOU DID SCARED ME HALF TO MOTHERFUCKING DEATH!**"

Tim groaned and somehow managed, despite his uncooperative, liquid-like muscles, to wriggle out of his bed and onto the floor.

He went thump. And somehow, he managed to wiggle along the floor until hew reached a pile of clothing. A quick sniff revealed that the clothing stank of sweat, but he didn't care. The jeans weren't as sweaty as the shirt, and he could go down shirtless. Going down in his boxers, though, when Dad was arguing with Dick. . .

Textbook case of Bad Idea.

He found Dad and Dick standing in the kitchen, glaring at each other.

Two faces, surrounded with dark hair and dominated by blue eyes, turned as one to glare at him.

"Uh? What's going on?"

The two answers came simultaneously: "Dick was being a jackass." "Fath is being a jackass."

"Um?"

"Last night, Dick decided to go raring off into the night after some purple-haired girl he _claims_ tried to hotwire his bike at SEAlabration. Dick, being the genius he is, decided to go raring off by means of _jumping out his window_."

"Well. Um. Bad Dick, no cookie?"

Dad glared at him. Dick only threw back his head and laughed.

Dad's mouth thinned into a single line. "Dick, driving privileges removed except to drive Tim. I'm also pulling your sugar rights, because Tim had a good idea, there. Tim, stay out of our arguments from now on. If I want your opinion on how Dick should be punished, I'll ask."

_Tightwad._

* * *

_Saturday, June 2nd --- 9:02 PM_

Tim followed Dick through the crowd. Dick had pestered Tim into coming to SEAlabration.

"The Rolling Clones are playing," Dick had said.

It turned out that Dick was right: the Rolling Clones had set up on stage, and were even now covering _It's Only Rock and Roll_.

The song reminded him of why he loved that band.

"This is actually cool!" Tim said. "I thought this was just some dumb 'let's advertise our crappy local bands' fest!"

"It is," Dick murmured. He was staring into the crowd.

Wait. Scratch that. Dick was staring at all the girls with weird hair colors.

"I thought you didn't like girls who dyed their hair?" Tim queried.

"I don't."

"Then why are you staring at girls with dyed hair?"

". . .Shut up."

Tim grinned. He'd gotten to Dick. That took a lot of work— Dick didn't usually get mad at his family. He'd get mad at teachers, at classmates, at people on the street, but never at his family.

Well, he hadn't _really_ made Dick angry, but he _had_ gotten under his skin. That took some work, too.

Part of Dick's alien-ness was how easily things rolled off of him. He was a show-off and a melodramatic, but he rarely gave a crap about what other people thought about him, or said to him.

_Words are words, and deeds are deeds_, he always said. _No sense getting as angry over words as you would deeds._

* * *

Tim followed Dick through the boardwalk.

He saw a girl with purple hair, wearing all black and carrying a black back with her. She crossed in front of Dick, and Dick veered to follow her.

Something crazy was happening here.

"You!" Dick suddenly cried out.

The girl looked up at Dick. Tim noticed that she had purple eyes, too, and very pale skin.

"Who are you? Why did you come to my house last night? Why did you try to hotwire my bike? Why—"

"—Why are you asking these questions? Why are you following me around?"

"Because you tried to steal my bike, and then you came to my _house_! We nearly got robbed last week—"

"I know."

Dick stopped talking. "You. You know? How?"

"I've been watching you for a while. We think you're worthy."

"Worthy? We? What the hell is going _on_ here?"

"We. The Acid. We bike. We've been watching you. You ride well."

". . .What?"

The best way to throw Dick off guard was to compliment him. Tim knew that for a fact, he did it all the time. _Can you smile like that at my teacher? If you do, she might just pass me._

"You ride well. If you can keep up with us, Johnny will let you join."

"Keep up? But... You don't have a bike..."

"Yes I do." The girl smiled a secret smile. "Maybe if you join... We could be..."

Dick seemed transfixed.

Tim watched Dick stiffen, his head turning to look down at the girl. "What are you suggesting?"

"What do you _think_ I'm suggesting?"

"Are suggesting what I think you're suggesting?"

"Yes."

And then Dick turned around walked to the mouth of the alley, grabbed Tim by the arm, and marched him down to face the purple-haired girl.

_Oh crap, he wasn't supposed to know I'm here!_

"See this? This is Tim. My kid brother. He's fifteen. He doesn't need to be hearing talk like that!"

"I didn't actually hear anything!" Tim said at the same time the girl said, "I didn't actually say anything 'like that'."

She said _like that_ as though it were a cute, childish thing. Like she was making fun of his brother.

"I don't _care_! You do _not_ talk like that in front of my kid brother!"

The girl took a step closer to them, and for a second, Tim could have sworn that the teeth in her sudden, pointless smile looked razor sharp and very pointy.

"I haven't been inappropriate."

"So I misunderstood you?"

She laughed. It took Tim a moment to realize that the dry, bitter sound her mouth emitted was a laugh. "Did I say that? I didn't say anything like that at all."

"Then you were being inappropriate."

"No I wasn't."

"Yes you were."

She looked at his older brother with a pouty expression. But Dick had his jaw set in that hard, straight line that said that he wouldn't hear any argument.

"Let's race," she said. "If you can keep up with me. . ."

"Then Johnny will let me join."

She nodded. "And if you join, then we can be..."

Dick nodded back. "Promise not to tell on me, Tim?"

"If you take me with you."

"Not likely."

"Well... What can you offer me?"

"Survival."

"Okay."

"Promise me."

"I promise."

He offered his hand to the girl. "Dick."

"Raven."

"You're on for a race."

The girl smiled. "Good."

* * *

Didn't I swear  
There would be no complications?  
Didn't you want  
Someone who's seen it all before?

Now that you're here  
It's not the same situation  
Suddenly I don't remember the rules anymore

This night is mine  
It's only you and I  
Tomorrow  
Is a long time away  
This night can last forever

—_This Night_, BILLY JOEL


	3. Chapter 3

**So Far So Fast**

**Chapter Three**

**1**

_Saturday, June 2 --- Desierto de la Muerta, 10:13 PM_

Sand churned around him, obscuring his vision. The thought of what that grit would do to his eyes made him glad he'd worn his helmet.

The other motorcycle's lights drew farther away. Raven had put on speed.

Dick's hand twitched on the throttle, but he stopped himself before accelerating. He had only the faraway lights of Jump City, in addition to a pale sliver of a moon, to guide him with any more accuracy than his headlight.

People died during night races.

Especially when they put the pedal to the metal in territory they didn't know and couldn't see.

_I may be dumb for doing this_, he muttered to himself, _but I'm not _that_ dumb._

Raven started to slow down.

He felt a feral grin tear at his face. This bike was a fast little bastard. He'd helped to build it back up into a semblance of a vehicle from the charred, twisted, smoking hunk of metal he'd worked to earn from the bike shop. He knew exactly what it could do.

He was going to gain on her. He was going to catch up with her.

He didn't add speed. He made no turns. She could run, but he would catch up eventually.

Let her run.

He could practically see the bike and rider, now. She was slowing down considerably.

Something had gone wrong. Was there a hazard on the road she hadn't anticipated? Had her bike started breaking down?

_Thank god for cheap pieces of crap_.

But wait, no— she was speeding up again. What was with this girl? She accelerated, her engine making horrible sounds and tires screeching. Sand swirled around as if they were in the middle of a sandstorm.

Something happened. Dick didn't quite see what. Whatever it was, it ended quickly, and ahead of him, Raven pulled into a wheelie for no apparent reason. After that, she slowed down again.

Dick leaned forward over the bike. Whatever had just happened, he could take her. He _would_ take her.

That was when he noticed that Raven had stopped. She'd stopped completely.

Raven turned around on the bike, looking directly at him.

Staring at him.

Something was wrong. And it wasn't with her.

He noticed, suddenly, the yawning crevasse in the road. A great black hole, stretching out in front of him.

Fifteen feet away.

Ten feet away.

Five feet away.

Desperately, he gunned the engine. At the edge of the hole, he pulled into a wheelie.

By some miracle, he managed to make the jump.

Ahead of him, Raven was gaining speed again. As he looked back at the crevasse, he realized something terrifying.

If he hadn't made that jump, he would have died.

Grimly, he wondered what other hazards this trail held that Raven hadn't warned him against. He set his jaw and hunkered over his bike. Things were probably going to get interesting.

After they left that portion of the trail, they rode along sand dunes. Swerving to follow Raven in a sudden turn, he slid along the sand and nearly fell. He managed to save himself from the fall, and quickly adjusted his course to follow her.

Raven began to zigzag across the sand. Despite her many changes in direction, Dick could pick out the way she wanted to go.

Zigzagging along sand at their speed was a dangerous thing. It led to falls, to wrecks, to broken necks and death. So just what was she doing? Was she trying to die?

_No_, the cynical part of him, the part of him that had never stopped being a gypsy, whispered. _She's trying to kill _you.

(Hr)

_11:04 PM_

He finally followed her into some sort of ruin. Most of what he could glean about the place was that it was large, dark, and full of random pieces of architecture. He couldn't make much out in the darkness. Not even the moon and distant lights of Jump City helped him.

"Leave your bike here," Raven said after she dismounted. She pulled off her helmet and shoved it on her bike after kicking out the kickstand.

He dismounted his own bike, kicking out the kickstand and leaving his helmet behind.

Odd, how he couldn't see the details of wherever they were, but he could see every curve of her body, how the leather tightened on her breasts. He could see the gleam of moonlight on pale flesh.

He could see her nipples through the bustier. That was damn thin leather, wasn't it?

It didn't surprise him that he slipped on the floor as moved to follow her.

His eyes were more on her than on his surroundings— and oh, god, where did girls learn to walk like that? Was there a school out there that offered classes on how to drive men up the wall?

He could see a course schedule now: "Walking with Sexy Self Confidence 101 (Lab)," "Breast Care 212: Mastering the Bounce (Lecture)," "Facial Expressions and the Sexy Look 316 (Lab)."

Dick shook his head. He really had to stop joking like that in his head. If he kept it up, he'd say something in front of Fath and get totally grounded.

He looked down and discovered why he'd slipped: the hangout's floor had a very heavy layer of sand.

"So. This is Acid's hangout," he said. "Why do you gather here?"

Raven didn't even bother to look at him. "Don't ask questions. You don't have the right to ask questions yet."

"Okay," he breathed. "I won't ask anything."

"Good."

She led him through various rotting tapestries, under fallen pillars, through discarded furniture and garbage. At length, they reached what looked like a dead end. But Raven took part of the wall in hand and jerked, hard, as though she were operating a very heavy sliding glass door.

The wall slid sideways, revealing a set of stairs.

She led him down the stairs in complete pitch darkness and with no words. He heard only the sounds of their footsteps.

As they went deeper into the stairs, he began to hear other things. Screams, laughter, the roaring of motorcycle engines.

He stopped moving, considering what a pain in the ass it would be— as well as the high probabilities of severe injury or death— to get a motorcycle up or down these stairs. So Acid had to have a different way in and out.

"What the hell is this place?" He demanded.

Raven slammed him up against the wall. If she noticed the way her body moved up against his, every lovely little curve sheathed tightly in ultra-thin leather and brushing up against him, she gave no sign of it. Instead, she wrapped her delicate, graceful fingers around his throat and squeezed. Hard.

"What did I say about asking questions?" When she asked, her voice was harsh and breathy. He could feel her breath on his neck.

Unfortunately, he had a hard time breathing enough to answer properly. All he managed was a breathy, rasping, "Not to!"

"Then don't. If you ask another question, Johnny will _kill_ you. Do you understand?"

He nodded. Sort of. He moved his head. And it was _kind of_ up and down. So it maybe counted as a nod.

Somehow, she saw his nod. Maybe she heard it, or felt it. Hell, maybe she just took his silence for a yes.

She released him and continued walking. He followed her, this time silently.

He didn't mind silence. It gave him a chance to rub his neck.

And then the stairs ended.

The Magical World of Beyond the Stairs, Dick discovered, consisted of a dark underground room. It was dark, so he didn't see much.

What he did see, though, he didn't like.

Someone had carted random items of furniture— mostly the fiberglass benches that looked like classic Greek couches— into the underground place. People leaned against them, sat on them, laid down on them...

Somehow, he got the impression of a spacious room. A spacious room, completely full of people.

"Oh god," he whispered to himself. "Just what have I gotten myself into?

(hr)

_Monday, June 4 --- Jump City, 07:14 AM_

Slade Wilson walked into the office. A few people greeted him, but mostly, the others just left him alone.

He liked it that way. Other people only got in his way.

Conversation. Socialization. Communal meals.

They told you in the academy that it was best to make sure you stayed in touch with your friends who weren't in the force. Funny, how many people he knew who seemed to disregard it.

He stopped in the far corner of the room; poured coffee that he suspected would melt the Styrofoam cups the office provided into his thermos. He said hello, how are you, "socialized" with the others.

He had noticed the woman who sat at his desk minutes earlier. He feigned surprise, though, because that's what you do. He told her that she was sitting in his seat. She laughed, gave the whole I need to talk to you outside routine.

They found a deserted place, a lonely little stretch of hallway where nobody was going to come or go until the next shift came in.

"What is it, Monahan?" Slade asked through gritted teeth.

"We've got a problem with the autopsy," Monahan said. She ran a hand through her short red hair.

Dana Monahan's biggest problem (aside from the fact that she was crooked) was that she constantly had sunburn in the summer. It made her look like a tomato all over. Red hair, red skin. All the time.

Slade couldn't stand looking at her any time of the year, whether she was a tomato or that particularly pasty shade of white that redheads turned.

"What kind of problem?" Slade said. He tried not to stare as the skin on her face tried to peel off.

"Well, it looks like the lab misplaced the bodies. Do they do that? Is that something they'll blame us for?"

"No, they're not going to blame us for that," Slade assured her.

"I didn't mean the higher-ups, I meant... I meant... _them_."

Ah, the ever-present _them_. Slade had almost forgotten about _them_. He wondered, idly, if every city had a _them_ of some sort.

"I mean, 'cos now they're doing some kind of _investigation_, and they're actually looking for the bodies, and he isn't going to like this, is he?"

That caught Slade's attention. He forced eye contact. "By he, do you mean _their_ leader?"

She nodded. "He's not going to like them knowing, is he?"

Slade gripped her shoulders. "I thought you were on my side, Dana. I thought you didn't have anything to do with _them_."

"I'm sorry, Wilson. I'm sorry," Monahan whispered. "Wilson, stop, you're hurting me!"

Slade gripped her harder. "You will, of course, terminate all connections with _them_ within this week. Otherwise, I'm afraid you're of no use to me. _They_ prey on good people, hard-working people."

"Are you threatening me?"

"No."

Slade moved his hands from her shoulders to grip the top of her arms. He formed his hands into claws and scraped his nails down her arm, along her red, peeling skin.

"I'm intimidating you."

He took her neck in one hand.

"And if you don't end all ties with _them_..."

His hand twitched, squeezed.

"...then I'm killing you. Very painfully."

He released her neck, shoved her against the wall. "You know what you have to do."

**2**

_Saturday, June 2 --- SEALabration, 11:21 PM_

"Dick!" Tim cried. "There you are! God, where did you _go?_"

"An abandoned amusement park. In Desierto de la Muerta."

Tim shook his head and sighed. "We're going to have to go fast if you want to get home in time for curfew."

Dick grinned. "I can handle that."

Something about that grin terrified Tim. It said something like _I am Superman_ as well as _I am going to _eat _somebody _alive. Dick never grinned like that.

Actually, he did it all the time, but he didn't do it with a psycho look in his eyes.

The psycho look was new.

"Well, Timmy?" Dick grinned again, gesturing to the bike.

There was something about him sitting on the bike, wearing all black, with a shiny helmet in his hands. Something that looked grown up and dangerous and like there would be twenty thousand buh-million girls trying to beat down the door with sticks. And that look was _heavy_ on the dangerous.

A knight in black leather armor with a plastic helm.

Something inside him sang, _Daaaangerous__. Dangerous. Daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaangerous. Don't go too cloooooooose. _

For some crazy reason, Tim thought: Scrambled eggs, vampires, and toast. That's what he looks like.

He mounted the bike behind his brother, hanging onto his brother's waist and pulling on his helmet.

They zipped through the streets on that black bike. Dick pulled into hairsbreadth turns at every opportunity. Tim's heart jumped into his throat every time they reached an intersection or a curving road.

What had gotten into Dick? What was going on? Sure, Dick drove so fast it was less like speeding and more like flying slowly, but he'd never been this reckless before. He'd never put his life into serious-ass danger and laughed in the face of it.

"Oh my _God_ Dick, that was a motherfucking _truck_!" He screamed.

"So?" Dick called back. "What, were you scared?"

"Fuck YES I was scared— you crazy son of a bitch! What the hell are you doing? Wait— oh my god— OH MY GOD!"

_Monday, June 4 --- Jump City, 08:14 AM_

"What news do you have about _them_?" Slade asked.

"No news, sir. But a piece of random graffiti in _their_ colors turned up on the boardwalk. Does that count as news?"

"Does it purport to be from _them_?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then yes. It counts as news. What does it say?"

"It's not in handwriting any of our specialists recognizes. Claims there's a new wolf on the prowl."

"_What_, Denny, does it _say_?"

"Uh, let me find the photo..."

Slade Wilson sighed. Monahan's stupidity had suggested to him that idiots surrounded him, but Lauren Denny proved the theory.

"Oh, here we go!" The rookie handed the photo to him, briefly brushing back his dark hair as he did so.

The photo shook his petty dislike of the other people in his department straight out of his mind. Sometimes, you just have to quit your bitching when the job that's in front of you gets harder. Sometimes, you just have to suck it up.

The picture consisted of the wall at the new building on the boardwalk. The wall was adobe. Somebody had gone to a lot of effort to deliver his (or her) message. He (or she) had painted a certain portion of the wall in a square of checkered colors: red and black. (S)he had waited for the paint to dry, and then spray-painted his/her message, outlining each letter of the text in silver, and outlining the teardrop shape in gold.

LET THE SHEEP COWER IN

FEAR

NOW THAT

A NEW EAGLE

ABOVE THEM

FLIES

"That teardrop mark... Is that the same way that _they_ always place _their_ messages?"

"Yes, sir. I have six different messages from _them_. This is _their_ MO. For graffiti, at least."

"I see. Good job, Denny. May I see those messages?"

"Of course, sir."

And, indeed, the newest message was identical in all things save its handwriting and content to the other messages.

"This is crazy. _They_'ve turned someone else? I can hardly believe it. I thought everybody in the city knew to stay away from _them_."

_Saturday, June 2 --- Wayne Residence, 11:54 PM_

Tim dismounted the bike and staggered up the front walk. Behind him, Dick was laughing his head off in the same creepy laugh he'd used on the bike.

He managed to regain the ability to walk properly by the time he reached the front door. He unlocked the door and walked in. He saw his father sitting in his favorite chair, reading a book.

"Did you have a good time?"

The bottom dropped out of his stomach. It promptly relocated itself to the back of his throat.

Tim swallowed whatever he'd eaten in the past few hours back down his throat and forced the appropriate reply to leave his mouth. "Yeah. I had loads of fun."

He was a damn liar. But that didn't matter. All that mattered was finding a toilet in time. He was going to hurl, soon.

He managed to get upstairs and make it to the toilet. He wretched. He hurled. He flushed the toilet and used mouthwash.

"Ugh, god," Tim whimpered. "I am never going anywhere with him _again_."

"Tim? Are you alright?" His father's voice called up.

"Just fine!" He shouted back.

Across the hallway, his bedroom door beckoned. He went to it, freaking _caressed_ the freaking doorknob and let himself into his room, trying hard not to hyperventilate.

And also trying hard not to puke again where he stood.

He went back to the bathroom.

He heard somebody pounding up the stairs.

"Dad, seriously, I'm fine!" He called when he wasn't retching as quietly as he could.

But Dick barged into the bathroom. He shoved Tim up against the wall, his hands reaching and tightening around Tim's throat.

"Don't tell Fath about our little scary driving incident, got it?"

"Dick. Dick. You're scaring me."

"Get it?" Dick snarled at him, a wide, toothy, scary snarl. "_Well?_"

"Yeah! Yeah, I get it. No talking to Dad about you being a psycho. Got it."

"Good."

And then Dick walked out, leaving Tim to rub his neck and try to figure out what was wrong with his brother.


	4. Teaser for Chapter Four

**So Far So Fast**

**Chapter Four**

**1**

_Sunday, June 3rd --- Wayne Residence, 11:41 AM_

Tim really would have gone on sleeping if his father hadn't literally picked him up out of bed and forced him to walk across the floor.

"Dad?" He asked. "What's going on? God, what time is it?"

"It's almost twelve, Tim."

"Couldn't I have slept another hour? Or three?"

"No. No, it's time to get up. Wake Dick up— I've got breakfast ready."

Tim grumbled something that might have been in English. He moved past his father and headed towards the stairs to the loft.

The door opened with a creak, and he went up the stairs with heavy footsteps. He made as much noise as possible. Maybe, if he was loud enough, he'd wake Dick up without having to shake him and stuff.

Oddly enough, when he reached the top of the stairs, he couldn't find Dick. It wasn't as if Dick hadn't gone to sleep, because the looked rumpled. But still...

No sign of Dick in the bed.

Tim turned back towards the stairs, calling out. "Hey, Dad! Are you sure Dick isn't up already?"

Bruce called back, "I'm sure! He hasn't come down for breakfast yet."

He frowned and turned back towards the loft. An idea springing to mind, he checked the window.

Locked.

He catalogued the situation in his head: not downstairs, not in bed, window locked, not visible.

This was really stupid.

He stopped and listened, and realized that he couldn't hear Dick snoring.

He could hear his father rush downstairs. On the ground floor, a door slammed open and then shut. His father pounded back up the stairs to the second floor.

"His motorcycle's in the garage! He's in there somewhere!"

Tim moved to check Dick's makeshift closet. He shoved the screen aside and found nothing. Well, that left one place. Under the bed.

And that was where he found Dick: flattened onto the ground, under his bed.

"I got him! He's under his bed!"

Dick didn't stir.

"Dick! Hey, Dick! Wake up!"

Tim marched to the window and pulled the shutters open. Light poured into the room.

Dick made no sound.

Tim realized, as he bent down to try and tug his older brother out from under the bed, that he couldn't hear his brother breathe.

Dick's hand felt cold to the touch.

"Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god." That was the only thing he could think to say. "Dad! Daaaaad! Daaaad! Dick isn't breathing!"

"What?"

"DICK ISN'T BREATHING!"

"I'll be right there!"

And Bruce shoved his way into the room. His legs went like a mile a minute as he practically sprinted up the stairs, and then towards Dick's bed.

His father pushed him out of the way, practically flinging him across the room.

"Dick! Dick! Dick, listen to me, you gotta wake up! Dick!"

He saw Bruce reach for Dick's hand, saw him grasp it and pull Dick out from under the bed. He saw his father start shaking his adopted son, shaking and shaking, and now he was shouting.

He checked his pulse. Shook his head, checked Dick's pulse again.

"No pulse," Bruce said. "Tim, go get the phone and call the police."

And then Dick woke up.

"God," Dick snapped. "It's fucking _bright_ in here."

Bruce, who was still holding Dick's wrist, blinked. "Language."

"Yeah, yeah. Sorry."

"Don't you talk to me like that, young man! I thought you were dead!"

"Whoa! Hold it. I'm not dead. Why would you even think that?"

Tim snorted. "Maybe because you weren't breathing and didn't have a pulse?"

"Are you kidding me? You seriously thought I was dead?" Dick pulled his wrist away from Bruce. "Look, Fath, I'm not dead. I'm talking to you and moving, aren't I?"

"Dick, why can't I feel your pulse?"

"No idea. But I wouldn't worry, if I were you. I feel fine. Heck, I feel great! I feel the best I've felt in fu—freaking _years_." Dick grinned.

Tim blinked. Something was wrong with the way Dick was grinning. It didn't look all psychotic, the way it had the night before. No, instead it looked...

Had some of Dick's teeth gotten longer? He could have sworn that Dick had actual _canines_, now.


End file.
